Since I’m finishing my book at home I’m often in contact with these guys (so far, not one female—despite other numerous faults, USPS is much more gender-friendly.) They are all pretty much the same—they ring my doorbell like ten times in a row and then the package is for the person upstairs/next door/never heard of ‘em.
Today when the dude asked for Joe I said, “That’s my husband.” I signed with the cool white pencil my loopy C, he asked me to spell my last name and I did.
“That’s not his name,” he said. I said, “I know. I didn’t take his name.”
He said, “You just can’t appreciate the man's name.”
I wish the exchange didn’t end here, but it did. It was cold and I didn’t have on socks, so I smiled and closed the door.
41 Stars. Whatever, my name is easier to spell and you’re a moron.